


Stranger

by Mistflyer1102



Series: Homebound [1]
Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistflyer1102/pseuds/Mistflyer1102
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson isn't quite sure of what to make of the strange man who showed up on the doorstep late at night, claiming that his name was 'Sherrinford Holmes', and that he knew Sherlock. She's thrown for another loop when the man returns once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At The Door

_Ding-dong!_

“If it's Gregson, tell him I'm not interested,” Sherlock Holmes said without looking away from the set of photographs on his desk.

“What if it's a case?” Joan Watson asked, pausing at the doorframe.

“Not interested. Still in the middle of the cold case he gave me last week.”

Joan put her hands up in mock surrender, but turned and left to get the front door anyway. She didn't know when the two of them had crossed that line that made Sherlock comfortable enough to lessen the amount of orders given, but it was a nice change compared to when they first met.

“I'm coming! One moment please!” she shouted when the caller knocked insistently at the door. “World's not going to end just because I'm not going to open the door fast enough,” she said, opening the door and looking up.

“Actually, it just might,” the light-haired stranger said, blue eyes darting across her person almost too quickly for her to follow; in fact, if Sherlock hadn't done the same exact thing when they first met, she probably would have missed it this time. "Please inform Mr. Holmes that Sherrinford has come to see him,” he added.

“Sherrinford?” Joan repeated, raising an eyebrow. She didn't remember anything about a Sherrinford from Sherlock's files, the one his father had provided.

The man sighed. “Yes, Sherrinford. Must you repeat everything I say?”

Joan stared at him. “Well, no, we've just met, how can I repeat everything if-”

“It doesn't bother me. It's actually... endearing, reminds me of home a little,” Sherrinford said, unconsciously glancing off to the side. “Now, excuse me, I know Sherlock is working now, but I need to talk to him now-”

“No. I don't know you, and you were never mentioned in Mr. Holmes's files. You are not coming in,” Joan said, blocking Sherrinford's path.  
A short exhale of frustration. “Ms. Watson, please do step aside as I am sure you do not want to experience of having your life spelled out for you a second time.”

Joan stared at him. Only Sherlock had been able to do that, and after a little while of association. “How did you know my name?” she finally asked.

Sherrinford looked an odd combination of stress, exhaustion, and annoyance. “I do my homework,” he said, breezing in past her.

“Hey, wait, you can't-”

“Sherlock!”

Silence.

“And that's my invitation to come up,” Sherrinford said, unraveling his blue scarf from his neck and shrugging off a black leather jacket that looked somewhat small for his lanky frame. Joan could only wonder when the last time this man had eaten or slept - there were dark circles underneath his bright eyes, she could see the outline of his skull, and he carefully adjusted his white shirt to conceal bony arms. Pursing her lips, she scanned his jacket pockets suspiciously for any contraband items before noting the small rectangular object in his jeans pocket.

“Don't worry, I'm clean. Been so for the last five years. That’s my mobile you’re seeing there,” Sherrinford said before turning on his heel and marching up the stairs. From this angle, Joan could see his shirt was hanging off his frame; he'd gotten into some kind of trouble and expected help.

_What have you gotten yourself into?_

Frowning, she followed him.

When she entered the living room, she found that Sherrinford had taken over her desk while Sherlock remained at his, both content at staring at the photographs. “Please tell me you have one for me,” Sherrinford said finally, looking up at Sherlock, who scowled. “I haven't solved a police case in two years, I need a break.”

Joan half-expected Sherlock to turn him down, he was protective and strangely possessive about his cases...

Instead of snapping at the stranger, Sherlock handed a file over. “Detective Tobias Gregson is the man in charge of the investigations around here,” he said, sitting back down. “How are the Yarders?”

“Being themselves. Lestrade keeps hiring idiots to replace idiots.” Sherrinford's tone was clipped, and Joan caught sight of the small frown. “And Ms. Watson, is it no longer considered rude to stare at people when they're not looking?” he asked irritably.

“Watch it,” Sherlock snapped, and ignored Sherrinford's flipped bird. 

Joan had had enough. “Sherlock, who is this?” she demanded, gesturing to Sherrinford.

“Sherrinford Holmes, one of many cousins from England,” Sherlock replied, casually leaning back in his chair. 

“He wasn't on your father's approved visitor list,” Joan said, sitting down in a free chair.

“He's that controlling? When I was still going through detoxification, at least Mycroft didn't regulate whom I could and couldn't see,” Sherrinford said dismissively, returning his attention back to the papers after brushing some hair out of his face.

“That’s because you didn’t have anyone to see you other than family and Lestrade.”

“And I’m quite sure you were the social butterfly in rehab,” Sherrinford shot back.

The two men fell into a temporary silence. “Blond doesn't suit you,” Sherlock finally said.

Sherrinford snorted. “Of course it doesn't. But I can hardly afford to be picky right now.”

“Yes, why are you here anyway?”

Sherrinford hesitated, and then set down the files he'd been examining. “As Mycroft likes to put it,” he said finally, “I may have overreached a little, several years ago, and I'm in the process of cleaning up a few mistakes before returning to London.”

“Few? Did any of these 'mistakes' have anything to do with _her_ coming here?” Sherlock asked, his voice full of disdain for an unnamed woman that both men evidently knew. The same one, Joan realized, that could have been the reason for Sherlock’s flight from London.  
“Irene Adler?” Sherrinford snorted. “That was just to spite Mycroft. I didn't care where she went after her life was spared.”

“I ran into her several weeks before Joan showed up. Some warning would be appreciated next time,” Sherlock said, glancing back at the photographs. “I saw your doctor's blog by the way.”

Sherrinford stiffened, but relaxed almost immediately. "Mycroft is keeping an eye on him," he said finally. 

Sherlock didn't say anything, and Joan suddenly felt as though the two men were still conversing albeit without words. Not to keep her out of loop, but out of habit. “Do you want tea or coffee?” she asked, glancing at Sherrinford.

“No. I don't plan to stay long. I have a lovely appointment tonight with a soon-to-be-dead sniper, any preferences where you want the body?” Sherrinford said, directing the question at Sherlock. 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he said, “Preferably somewhere outside of this precinct. I don't want to have to lie to Gregson about why there's a dead body... where were you going to meet the sniper?”

“At that little park down the road. Thought it would be fitting, seeing as he tried to kill my landlady while she was at a park several weeks ago,” Sherrinford said casually, as though the two were just discussing tomorrow's weather.

“Hm. And you just left the doctor behind?”

Sherrinford narrowed his eyes. “His safety is a greater priority, and London is the safest place for him.”

“You haven't read his blog lately, have you?”

Sherrinford raised both gloved hands; Joan had missed the gloves earlier. “No computer.”

“Joan's computer right over there.”

“Don't mind if I do.”

“It's password-protected, and no, you may not use it,” Joan said as Sherrinford reached for her laptop. 

“True or false: your father’s first name combined with your mother’s maiden name all lowercase and in one word is the password,” Sherrinford said without looking up as he typed the password and easily accessed her laptop.

Joan stared at him. “So you both can do that deducing thing.”

“No, I just do my homework. I had to find out where he lived after all,” Sherrinford replied mildly as he accessed the Internet and typed in the network password. He was quiet as he typed in a web address, and Joan, curious despite herself, leaned over slightly to see the screen better.

He was staring at a blog, the owner’s face in a small box off to the upper right hand corner. _‘The Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson’_ lined the top in green, and Sherrinford made a humming sound to himself as he clicked on and scanned the latest entry, which was made four weeks ago. The message itself was short, and read:

_Close Call at Regents Park_

_Went for a walk with Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone, it’s the first time in a while we’ve spoken; she’s been busy with her sister and I at the surgery. Thought a bit of fresh air would do us both some good. Apparently there was a bloody sniper in the building across the street, and tried to shoot us both when we were about to enter the park. I pulled Mrs. Hudson down, she’s all right now - and fired back, but it didn’t really end until Mycroft Holmes  of all people arrived and the sniper stopped firing and took off. He didn’t get far; Mycroft’s henchmen were waiting for him in the back alley and chased him down the street until he was shot down. No one, except for the sniper, was hurt._

_The timing was so impeccable it was... suspicious._

_Mycroft, since I know you’re reading this, please give me my black jacket back. Preferably unbugged. I just discovered it missing, and I think I lost it in the move out of 221B. You know, when you were being oh so helpful taking... taking your brother’s things. Thank you._

The post had several comments, but Sherrinford didn’t bother reading through them. “He got a dog. _A dog._ Wonderful,” Sherrinford groaned. Leaning forward, he opened the comment box and typed, _‘He doesn’t have the jacket. It’s nice and warm, but will return it soon. -SH.’_ Then he posted the comment before he went and started skimming through the sporadically scattered previous posts. 

“You’re going to give him a heart attack,” Sherlock remarked dryly as he studied the updated blog.

“He’s made of stronger stuff than that,” Sherrinford replied without looking up.

Joan silently applauded Dr. John Watson for managing to put up with Sherrinford. She considered emailing him for advice on how to handle Sherlock Holmes, maybe she could just set up the situation without using names and be able to squeak by getting assistance and not betraying patient confidentiality at the same time.

“That is inadvisable, Ms. Watson,” Sherrinford suddenly said without looking up.

She gaped at him. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“You just read one of his posts over my shoulder, and you know that he’s made of sterner stuff in order to handle a little thing like a comment post. You have evidently dealt with my cousin for quite some time already, and therefore know the pain of dealing with a difficult flatmate. Further investigation into Dr. Watson’s blog after my departure will show you that he knows how to handle difficult flatmates. I advise against contacting Dr. Watson as he is going through a difficult time right now and any further mention of his former flatmate might prove to be detrimental to his recovery,” Sherrinford said without looking up from another entry he was reading.

“As little as there was to begin with,” Sherlock muttered without looking up.

Sherrinford ignored him. Instead, he asked, “Where’d you get the bees?”

“Here in the United States. Airlines don’t usually like it when you bring bees onboard,” Sherlock said, tossing a sealed file over to Sherrinford, who easily caught it. 

“Airlines get touchy about the stuff in checked luggage too, I’ve noticed. Had to ask Mycroft to send over half of the things I needed-”

Joan had had enough. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but-”

“No, you’re not.”

She scowled at both men, who both had responded without looking up. “Who exactly are you, and how are you related to _him?_ ” she asked, glaring at Sherrinford while gesturing to Sherlock.

Sherrinford stared at her. “My name is Sherrinford Holmes, and I am his cousin once removed. Do keep up, Ms. Watson, you can’t exactly help Sherlock here if you are constantly behind,” he said as he leaned back to hand over the folders to Sherlock. “It was the twin cousins, their uncle was the family patriarch and he threatened to disinherit them if they didn’t pull their act together. They did, but not in the way that the uncle meant.”

“Evidence?”

“The birth records, the uncle’s last will and testament, and the girl’s allergy to peanuts.”

“Which one of you is older?” Joan asked, leaning back in her chair.

The two men looked at each other, and then Sherrinford said, “Him, by a few months.”

_Ping!_

Joan glanced at the blog, and noticed that another comment had been posted in response to Sherrinford’s. It said:

_Not. Funny. At. All. Mycroft._

Sherrinford sighed and shut the laptop. “I’d reply, take the heat off Mycroft for not only the jacket, but the timing with the rescue, but I’ve risked enough as it is even though it is. I’ll have to call Mycroft about watching his timing because the doctor and landlady are as safe _as long as they don’t know.”_ He glanced at the nearby wall clock. “I have to go now, don’t want to miss a rendezvous that took several weeks to set up."

“You can come back and spend the night once you’re done. Door will be unlocked.” Sherlock said as Sherrinford stood up. 

Joan tried again. “But-”

“Thank you. I’ll stay on the couch, I know I’ve occupied it more often than not back home on Baker Street,” Sherrinford said. “And lock the door, the spare key is under the flowerpot anyway.”

Sherlock merely nodded while Joan stared at this man. Did he specifically snoop around for the key before knocking?

Sherrinford stood up, worked out a crink in his spine, and then looked down at her. “Good evening, Ms. Watson,” he said before sweeping out of the room, a gesture that was largely wasted since he apparently didn’t own a long coat of some kind to complete the effect.

She and Sherlock were quiet as they heard Sherrinford grab his things and then leave, taking care to slam the door behind him as he left. “Move the key to the doormat,” Sherlock said without looking up from his cold case files. “It’ll drive him crazy that he was wrong.”

“You can’t just invite people into the apartment like that,” Joan said. “I mean, for all I know, he could be smuggling things in that you can’t have.”

“He won’t. He’s been clean for five years, he won’t wreck that record now that he knows I have someone monitoring me. He wants to beat me, so he won’t risk breaking his record,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair after closing a couple folders. “You should get some rest, Watson. You think he’s strange now, wait until morning.”

Joan frowned. “What if Gregson has a new case in the morning?”

“Sherl- Sherrinford is only here for the night. He won’t put you at risk,” Sherlock merely replied before standing. “If there is a case in the morning, then you and I will have something to do. He’ll likely be gone right before or after breakfast anyway.”

“Why would he put me at risk?” Joan asked, standing up as well.

“Because his enemies are monitoring a Doctor Watson. You and I know that it’s his doctor that they want, but when they see him associating with you, another Doctor Watson, then they’ll realize their ‘mistake’, and rectify it. It wouldn’t be fair of him to do that to me,” Sherlock replied before leaving the living room, leaving Joan alone.

After a moment’s hesitation, she came to a decision. Too wound up to sleep, she picked up her laptop and sat down with it. Opening the lid, she found that the webpage was still open to Dr. John Watson’s blog. She scrolled down to the first entry, and settled back in her chair to read.


	2. In The House

Joan Watson thought she’d seen the last of Sherrinford Holmes after he left last night.

Apparently not.

“How did you get in?” she blurted, her grip tightening on the coffee pot and mug she was holding. Sherrinford didn’t immediately answer her; he was sprawled on the couch (with _her_ laptop again), and was texting someone; his fingers made clacking noises as he smashed the keys in anger. She immediately became self-conscious in the T-shirt and sweatpants that she usually wore when lounging around the house on off-case days.

_It’s too early in the morning to deal with this. It really is._

“I said-”

“I heard you, I just chose not to answer right away,” Sherrinford replied without looking up. Tossing the phone off to the side, he went back to the email he’d been writing. “Sherlock’s imagination is painfully lacking if he thinks that I wouldn’t have noticed the key.”

“Just as yours is if you didn’t think I wouldn’t notice you switching out the tea bags and the coffee grounds,” Sherlock said as he came in, pulling on a T-shirt. “How did last night go anyway?”

Joan looked down at the coffee pot she was holding, tilted the lid open slightly with a thumb, and sniffed it. It was tea all right, _strong_ tea. Grumbling to herself, she turned to go switch the two drinks back.

She was glad she hadn’t seen these two while they were growing up if they acted this way to each other _now._

“Hey, I wanted that!” Sherrinford shouted after her. She ignored him.

When she came back into the living room, with coffee this time, Sherlock was at his computer while Sherrinford was still sprawled all over the couch, firing off emails right after another. “Ms. Watson?” Sherrinford said just as she was about to sit down.

“What?”

“May I see your phone for a moment?”

Joan stared at him. “No, you have one of your own, I saw you texting on it earlier.”

“Actually, that was Sherlock’s.”

“Fine. Then what about the one you _claimed_ to have last night?”

“Lost it in the pond when the assassin and I fell in. He wasn’t very coordinated to begin with, but he still tried to unbalance me.”  
“What he’s trying to say is that he lost his phone in the water, and needs to text someone,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, and I promise it won’t be a serial killer,” Sherrinford said impatiently, gesturing for her to toss the phone already. “And Sherlock’s being mean and won’t let me use his.”

“I won’t let you give _her_ my number,” Sherlock snapped, turning from the photographs on his computer to glare at his cousin.

“She’s not interested in either of us anymore. As far as she knows, you’re still in rehab and I no longer exist.”

There was silence throughout the apartment; Joan suspected it was mostly her shocked by the news. Sherlock hadn’t even reacted to the announcement. “What do you mean by that?” she said, jumping into the conversation before Sherlock or Sherrinford could redirect it. “What do you mean, you ‘no longer exist’?”

“As far as the world is concerned, sans a few individuals, I disappeared several years ago. You’d be surprised at how many people relax their guard once they realize that their enemy is gone and likely buried,” Sherrinford said quietly, leaving the email open in a tab so that he could peruse Dr. Watson’s blog again. But before Joan could see which entry it was, he flicked back to the email. “And of course, The Woman is one of those individuals. Now, Ms. Watson, if you could be so kind as to hand me your phone?”

Joan narrowed her eyes. “No.”

Sherrinford huffed impatiently. “Just give it to me.”

_“No.”_

Sherrinford groaned as Sherlock snickered. “You just _had_ to pick a difficult one, didn’t you?” he snapped as he reached for Sherlock’s phone, only to swear when Sherlock moved it out of reach. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’m just going to call Mycroft! For all his self-proclaimed importance, he nearly had me killed last night! And you know he has your number anyway!”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock tossed him the phone, muttering under his breath as Sherrinford quickly typed out a text and sent it before scrolling through Sherlock’s contacts. Hitting one, he tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear before typing out and sending another email. 

“He sent that damn text, didn’t he?” Sherlock said without looking up.

Joan started, and then realized he was talking to her. “Yes, he did.”

“Bastard.”

“Relax, she won’t be interested in you. In fact, she won’t even know it’s your phone number. She knows that I keep switching phones anyway,” Sherrinford said crossly. “Now hush.”

Joan almost asked ‘why’ when Sherlock gestured for her to remain quiet.

“Mycroft,” Sherrinford said curtly, his brow furrowing as he continued typing. “I hope you know why I’m calling.” There was silence as Sherrinford listened to something that Mycroft said, and then he said in an even tone, “Fratricide is looking very appealing at the moment.”  
Joan’s mouth fell open, but to her even greater shock, Sherlock was trying very hard not to start sniggering right there and then. Sherrinford ignored his cousin as he stretched out on the couch and then said, “Is John all right at least? Mrs. Hudson?”

Joan almost asked Sherlock if he knew who John was, but then realized that it must have been John Watson, the same one that ran the blog she read last night.

“Mmm... no. I am not crossing the Atlantic right now to return the jacket... yes, I saw the reply. I still have business to finish up in New York and Boston, and then I’ll go wherever the trail leads me. Besides, I need an excuse to go home... oh, do shut up, dear brother. Does John or Lestrade suspect anything? I worry that John may have picked up some of my techniques... I hope for your sake that holds,” Sherrinford said, rolling his eyes. Then his mouth thinned and he glanced down at the ground. “No. I don’t even know yet who is in charge; it could be any one of the three. Worse yet, I discovered last week that the three snipers have backups in case they are killed, and the backups have backups.”

Joan stood up and went back into the kitchen. At first glance, Sherrinford sounded in control, but she could sense the underlying desperation in his tone. She fixed a cup of tea and brought it back out along with the milk and sugar; she didn’t know how Sherrinford took his tea, and figured that he could make it himself.

The conversation wasn’t going in Sherrinford’s favor. He kept making faces, and was growing more and more visibly distressed as he idly tapped random keys on the keyboard. At one point, he drew in a sharp breath and he said, “Why did he break it off if he was happy with her?” and then deflated when he heard the response. 

“I can’t come home yet, Mycroft,” he said, moving Joan’s laptop off to the side so he could reach for the tea that Joan had set on the small coffee table. “I’m trying, but there’s more to the network than I thought there was. I need the name of the damned second-in-command, and I plan to get it today. Next time something happens over there, _tell me_ so I don’t set up strange meetings with people I don’t know over the Internet. I can’t regularly check the blog when he doesn’t update it in _years._ ” His eyes narrowed, and he growled, “I still know a few ex-assassins who owe me favors.”

“I take it that he doesn’t get along with his brother?” Joan whispered to Sherlock, who shook his head.

“No one really does. I never got along with Mycroft either, and I didn’t see him very much when I was growing up,” Sherlock muttered back. “Remind me to bring you along next time someone in our family gets in their head to have a massive family reunion.”

“I refuse to go,” Sherrinford snapped before raising the phone back up to his mouth.

“I never said I would go either, but it’s safe to assume that Mycroft will drag us both to it,” Sherlock said, glancing at his cousin.  
“Mycroft can throw his immense weight around to his heart’s content, but I will not go. I refuse,” Sherrinford said before saying into the phone, “I’ve been stressing you out for the last three years. Of course you’ve gained weight! And if you dare bring me to another family function, I promise I will not hesitate to tear Aunt Matilda to shreds!”

“Already did that a week before I left England. She can’t handle having two of us in the family, she said so to dear Mum,” Sherlock said, pulling out another cold case file. 

“Then she is probably secretly rejoicing that one is gone,” Sherrinford said bitterly before saying into the phone, “Don’t lie Mycroft, we both know that she couldn’t stand me.”

“You’re making me more and more nervous about meeting your family,” Joan said, glancing over at Sherlock, who shrugged. 

“You already have had contact with my father. He’s as close to normal as you can get in the Holmes family. Your definition of normal that is.”

“ _My_ definition of normal? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you consider siblings talking about murdering each other ‘normal’?” Sherlock asked, turning to her.

“Well, no, but-”

“There you have it. Your definition of normal. Inter-familial competition is nothing new in my family, both extended and immediate,” Sherlock said.

“There is no such thing as competition with Mycroft. He would lose every time except for the food consumption contest,” Sherrinford said before going back to the conversation over the phone. “Of course it’s true, Mycroft, you’d gained weight the last time I saw you.”

“They must have one hell of a childhood, growing up together,” Joan finally said.

“It always is in the Holmes family,” Sherlock said.

_Ping!_

Startled, Joan looked down at her own cell phone to find that a text had come in from a blocked number. Pulling her phone out, she frowned when she read the message:

_Darling, the threat is much closer to home than you thought. Yes, there was a second man, but JM always kept him in the dark until the last mission. He was a soldier, never questioned it. **Received: 9:30 am, 3/14/12** _

“Ms. Watson, if you don’t mind?” Sherrinford said without looking at her as he abruptly disconnected the call with Mycroft. “I’ve been waiting for that.”

“How did the text come here?” Joan asked, baffled as Sherlock reached over and took her phone, tossing it to Sherrinford a moment later. 

“Gave her the ‘new’ number. Don’t worry, I’ll send the text after the next one from a different phone,” Sherrinford said as he rapidly typed in a response before pressing ‘Send’. “Mycroft evidently enjoyed the idea of a family reunion. Obviously not now, but perhaps later in the future, when I’ve settled everything.” Glancing at Sherlock, he asked, “Where can I get a new phone?”

“At the market down the street. At the corner store, tell the proprietor I sent you, and he’ll get you whatever you need free of charge. Helped him out of a sticky spot a few weeks back,” Sherlock said, scanning the contents of the current file in his hands. 

“Will you ever come back to London?” Sherrinford suddenly asked, twisting to look at his cousin. 

Joan was somewhat surprised to find that she too was curious about Sherlock’s answer. The man in question merely shrugged. “London can’t handle one of us on a good day, two might just push Lestrade over the edge,” he replied. “Besides, I like it here in New York City. No one knows me here, and that’s just how I want it.”

Sherrinford raised an eyebrow, as though he knew that Sherlock wasn’t saying something. But he didn’t push it; instead he went back to typing emails and waiting impatiently for the phone to ring. “Do you still have your violin?” he finally asked.

“I can give you anything to borrow except that,” Sherlock said curtly, and Sherrinford muttered under his breath before going back to his work.

Joan watched the two men in silence. She’d spent all of last night reading through Dr. Watson’s blog, making it as far as the Baskerville case before calling it a night due to the late hour. At first, she’d wondered if her Sherlock Holmes was the same one that Dr. Watson knew, and that she had yet to get to the case, or specifically the reason, that drove Sherlock from London. The timeline somewhat worked out, and it was possible that Sherlock had relapsed after leaving Dr. Watson. But then she found several photographs of the two men, Holmes and Watson, and found that the photos of Holmes did not match up with hers. No, Holmes’s photographs matched loosely with her memory of Sherrinford; the two had tall, skinny frames, pronounced cheekbones (Sherrinford’s more so because of his poor diet), and similar eyes. The differences were that Sherrinford’s eyes were just a little bluer than Holmes’s, and he had short light hair compared to Holmes’s darker hair.

That and Holmes, according to London news sites, had been dead for three years.

She stood up, remembering the drug test kit that still waited for her upstairs to use on an unwilling patient. Leaving the two cousins squabbling again (this time over the effectiveness of different _legal_ stimulants), she headed back up the stairs and entered the bedroom. It took her a few moments to locate the kit, but it wasn’t until she was leaving when she realized that one of her alarm clocks was missing.

“Sherlock!” she yelled in exasperation.

_“What?”_

She froze in the ensuing silence, she was pretty sure she heard two voices. But before she could recall the memory, she heard, _“What?”_

Two voices, and then just one.

Shaking her head, she went down the stairs to find Sherrinford’s face completely blank while Sherlock looked up at her innocently. “What’s wrong now?” he asked.

“Where’s the second alarm clock?” she asked.

“Oh, I borrowed that earlier this morning. Came in at four-thirty, didn’t see a point in trying to get sleep so I worked on improving the radio performance,” Sherrinford said, not looking away from the laptop as he pointed to the (shockingly intact) alarm clock sitting on the nearby table. 

“He was trying to pick up signals from other countries, namely England,” Sherlock said.

“Sadly, the experiment ended in abysmal failure since apparently it is a basic radio, and any further attempts to improve its performance will only ensure its destruction. Does Sherlock wake you up constantly at night, which in turn requires that you have two alarm clocks so that you are not late?” Sherrinford asked, looking up at Joan.

“Brilliant deduction,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically as Sherrinford rolled his eyes.

_Ping._

Sherrinford’s attention was diverted back to the cell phone, and Joan watched as he frowned. “Even in death, he continues to mock me,” he growled, deleting all three texts before tossing the phone back to Joan. “‘Closer to home than you thought’ clearly indicates the threat is in London, even an idiot could have figured that out. I need a _name. Names,_ Sherlock. I need the name of a sniper, possibly ex-military, who lives in London and worked for-” he broke off his sentence when he saw Joan, and then continued, “That mutual friend of ours who passed away a couple years ago.”

“Don’t look at me, I haven’t been in London in a while. But,” Sherlock said, raising a hand as though to forestall protests, “If I hear something, I’ll pass it along. Messenger?”

“The homeless woman down the street, she wears a red plaid jacket and jeans, always sits outside the Italian place without fail. Doesn’t come on Sundays, that’s when she goes to church. She’ll pass the message along to the right person.” Sherrinford exited the email program before shutting the laptop and setting it on the coffee table. Joan noted that he was wearing rattier clothes this time, compared to last night that is. Grabbing the nearby black jacket, he slipped it on before grabbing his tea and downing it in one gulp. 

“Told you it was strong,” Sherlock said, ignoring his cousin as Sherrinford coughed and sputtered. “Then again, you should have known that already seeing as it was you who did it.”

“No… just not prepared... correctly,” Sherrinford said, coughing as he set the cup down.

“Call when all is done,” Sherlock added as Sherrinford walked around the table and toward the door. 

“If I can still speak by then,” Sherrinford replied. “Good day, Ms. Watson, it was... nice to meet you.”

Then, without another word, he was gone.

There was silence between Joan and Sherlock for a few more minutes.

Then, “Sherlock, who exactly is he?” Joan asked, looking at her charge.

“My cousin,” Sherlock said, looking up at her innocently.

“What’s his real name?”

Sherlock sighed and then set down the photographs he’d been examining. “Joan, not once was a lie spoken underneath this roof,” he said, looking at her. “Necessity dictates his, and my, actions in different situations, and in this case, he really was Sherrinford Holmes, my first cousin once removed. Ask my father if you don’t believe me.”

Joan took a deep breath and then asked, “That man, the one that just walked out this door, he was not born with the name ‘Sherrinford Holmes’, was he? He’s just pretending to be Sherrinford, wasn’t he?”

“Good, now you’re asking the right questions. Yes, and yes.” Sherlock waited until they heard the sound of a car leaving the curb outside the building before he said, “But he really is my cousin, and Sherrinford, the real one that is, is a cousin of ours. I can’t really go beyond that because he has felt a pressing need to keep his identity concealed for now, and to tell you more would be to compromise the safety of people we’ve never met. Even I don’t know the full extent of what he’s gotten himself into now, but that’s because I chose not to pry.”

Joan blinked. “You _chose_ not to pry into someone else’s life?” she asked, teasing him slightly. “Now we definitely need to do that test...”

Sherlock scowled. “If you simply examine the evidence he gave you last night and this morning, I think you can figure out exactly who he is and what he’s up to. Think back to every slip, every word, and every scrap of information that he gave away. He knows I can deduce things, and the only people we could never deduce are each other because we’re both very familiar with the rules and how to hide.”

“I’m sorry Sherlock, but I don’t have all the pieces the way you do,” Joan replied. 

“Either way, he’ll be going home soon.” Sherlock reached for his mug when his phone beeped. “Oh, what now?” he grumbled, taking the phone and putting it up to his ear. “Hello?” 

Joan watched as he scowled, and then said, “I’ll be there.” 

“Gregson?” she guessed when he hung up.

“I _told_ him to leave the body somewhere _outside_ the precinct,” Sherlock growled as he stood up and grabbed his own jacket. “Apparently that was too hard of a request to grant.” Glancing at Joan’s lost expression, he said impatiently, “Sherrinford left his victim’s body in the park. Gregson just found it washed up on the pond banks.”

Joan sighed, and said, “Drug test first, and then we’ll go.”

“No. Damage control now, test later.” Sherlock hustled her to the stairs. “Hurry up and get dressed, we need to leave as soon as possible.”  
Joan started to protest but then Sherlock started herding her up the stairs, and then she gave in. 

~*~*~*~*

It wasn’t until much later that night, while Sherlock was settled back with his cold cases (the ruling on the sniper’s death was that it had been a drug deal gone bad, and Gregson seemed content for now with the explanation), that Joan remembered Sherrinford Holmes and his association with Doctor John Watson. Pulling out John Watson’s blog again, she studied the last entry before opening up her email program.

She had a few questions to ask Dr. Watson about one Sherrinford Holmes, just a few polite inquiries, and she hoped the doctor wouldn’t be too averse to answering them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s it for this story. There are two more parts to the overall arc that continue from here, but since school is starting to pick up again (not to mention all the in-progress fics in my archive), it will take me a little time to get the beginning of the next part up. Sherlock Holmes and all related media belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and all adaptations belong to their proper owners. Huge thank you goes out to everyone who read/gave kudos/alerted/commented this story. I’m glad you enjoyed it.


	3. Down the Street

“Please tell me you did something constructive this morning,” Joan said as she walked into the apartment after her morning run.

Sherlock looked up from the mess on the floor. “I did something constructive this morning,” he parroted before going back to the mess of photographs on the floor.

Joan groaned before she headed to the kitchen. It had been two weeks since Sherrinford had left the house, and since then, things hadn’t been going quite right for her. She’d tried emailing Dr. John Watson every two days, but he seemed intent on ignoring her; each email went unanswered until she received an email from the service provider politely informing her that the email she was trying to contact was no longer in service. It made sense really, after all, Dr. Watson was probably bombarded with so many emails that he changed the address to further disappear from the media’s ever-attentive eye. 

And she didn’t blame him.

“What case are you working on now?” she asked, not looking up from her work in the kitchen. She needed to shower before they headed out again. 

“The last cold case Gregson had on file. I’m almost done,” Sherlock replied. She sensed the irritation in his voice: not at her or the case, but rather at his eccentric cousin who evidently didn’t move his victim’s body out of the precinct. 

He’d easily explained it away anyway. She didn’t know what his problem about it was now. 

_Brrring!_

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said after the first ring - the phone had been sitting on a nearby stack of paperwork. Joan paused in the making of coffee to glance at him, and found him frowning. “And you’re calling me because...?” he said. Then, “Aha. Very well, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Then he promptly hung up.

“Another case?” Joan asked. 

“Yes. Get dressed, and we shall go.”

“I have to shower first.”

“Actually, after the preliminary examination, I believe this will be a laughably simple case to solve, so you don’t need to dress up for this one. Just throw something on and let’s go,” Sherlock said, jumping to his feet and grabbing the nearest (clean?) T-shirt off of where it was hanging off the back of his chair. He paused and said, “Shall we?”

“Let me get dressed first,” she said before turning off the coffeemaker. 

\-------------------------------------

The taxi ride to Central Park was mercifully short; Sherlock was irritated at Gregson for not providing much more detail beyond that someone had been murdered and left for dead. A jogger running through the park earlier that morning had discovered the body quite by accident, and was apparently too shocked to do anything except sit down in horror at the scene. Her husband had come along a while later looking for her, and had called 911 once he saw his traumatized wife and the corpse.

“Woman’s name is Amy Falsworth, husband’s name is Colin. He’s from London, she’s from Boston. The two were down here visiting some of her relatives,” Gregson explained as Sherlock joined him, leaving Joan behind to pay the taxi driver. “She does a morning run around here every day, and apparently never heard a gunshot.”

“Gunshot? Where was he shot?” Sherlock asked as Joan joined him.

“In the back and in the side of the head. There’s blood everywhere. Mrs. Falsworth went into shock while she and her husband waited for the police and the ambulance to arrive, they’ve already left. Body’s still here, though, it is a crime scene.”  
“At what time did Mrs. Falsworth leave for her run?” Sherlock asked.

“Husband says she left the house around six this morning, like she’s done every day since they’ve arrived,” Gregson said as the three of them approached a small ring of police at a spot where several paths met. Joan could just barely see a man’s side on the ground through the police. 

“Was there anyone else around before then?”

“Mrs. Falsworth didn’t see anyone before she encountered the body. We asked some of the neighboring residences, and they didn’t hear anything either,” Gregson as he and Sherlock approached the body; Joan lingered behind, just enough to hear Sherlock but not see the body.  
“That doesn’t mean anything. A silencer was used, you can tell from-”

Joan’s head snapped up when she heard Sherlock’s voice falter for the first time since she’d known him, and, despite her personal issues with corpses, she immediately moved to his side to ascertain the problem. 

She froze when she recognized the body on the ground before her.

It was Sherrinford Holmes. He was still wearing the ragged clothes that he’d left their apartment in, and there were several small splatters surrounding a darker red splotch on his tan jacket. The large splotch covered the expanse of his upper back, and Joan could see the torn fabric and damaged skin. His head lay sideways against the concrete, showing his profile. Red stained his fair hair and pooled around his shoulders up. His mouth was partially open as though in a silent scream.

Joan glanced at Sherlock; something flickered in his eyes before another emotion masked it. “Sniper had a silencer, he was either British or American. Silencers are extremely sensitive yet expensive equipment, so they’re highly guarded. Unsanctioned kill, no one would murder a civilian, especially a harmless one, so army deserter. A fine good shot, I might add,” he said brusquely as he straightened, blue eyes never leaving the body. “Get the bullets out of the body, use them to identify the rifle,” he added, lingering for yet another moment before turning on his heel and leaving a baffled Gregson.

“Sherlock?” Joan called, and then ran to catch up with him. “Sherlock, wait,” she said as the other headed straight to the street to hail a cab. “Sherlock-”

“What?” Sherlock asked in a curt tone. “If this is about Sherrinford-”

“He was your cousin, the two of you were obviously close-”

“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock replied as a taxi pulled up to the curb. “It only presents a previously unavailable opening for others to use against you.”

Joan sighed, and glanced back to the crime scene, where the police were helping the paramedics load the body into the back of the ambulance. “Sherlock, there’s nothing wrong with grieving for him,” she said, getting into the taxi before he could close the door on her.

“I know.” Sherlock stared out of the car window, his face unreadable. He was unconsciously fiddling with his phone, as though debating to call someone or not. 

“Sherlock,” Joan began.

“I need to call Mycroft. He’ll want to know that his little brother is dead,” Sherlock replied curtly before he hears it from someone else.” Without another word, he dialed a number and put it up to his ear, leaving Joan to her own devices. Granted, she was curious about his interactions with other members of his family, but also didn’t want to eavesdrop on a private conversation.

“Yes, it’s me,” he finally said, looking out the window. “Don’t care. Sherrinford is dead; sniper shot him inside Central Park. Head and back... I’m going to St. Mary’s right now to secure the body and arrange for transportation back to England... yes, I saw the body myself. I’m sure it’s him.”

There was silence, and Joan assumed Mycroft was speaking now. Sherlock just nodded occasionally, and even said, “So he won’t ever know?” before falling silent again. Then, “I see. Good bye... don’t ever contact me, especially since you now have my number.” Then he hung up.  
“Joan, you are free to ban Mycroft Holmes from ever visiting, calling, or otherwise contacting me. Also, remind me to change phone numbers,” Sherlock said, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

“Actually, only your father can do that. But I’m sure Captain Gregson can help you out with the restraining order,” Joan said. She hesitated, and then tentatively asked, “How will you arrange for the transportation?”

“Mycroft has offered to pay, all I have to do is set up the arrangements. I’m going to talk to the mortician at St. Mary’s, the one who will be doing the final autopsy before travel,” Sherlock replied, leaning back in his seat and looking away, signaling the end of the conversation. He only muttered curses after that as the taxi got caught up in increasingly thickening traffic, delaying their arrival to the hospital more and more.

Upon arrival to St. Mary’s, Sherlock didn’t even slow down; he walked briskly to the front desk, and didn’t have to ring the bell to catch the attention of the distracted receptionist. “An ambulance with a murder victim should be coming soon with a victim, he’s-”

“If you’re talking about the dead man from Central Park, he’s already here. In the morgue that is,” another nurse said without looking up before she returned to another patient.

The receptionist smiled apologetically. “Sorry about her, she’s new. I’m sorry for your loss, but that particular man had been declared dead at the scene. Are you family?” she asked.

“Yes, I am his cousin and she is my wife,” Sherlock said without hesitation, gesturing to Joan, who tried her best not to looked shocked at this new relationship status.

“Very well, I can ask a nurse to-”

“No thank you, I know where to go,” Sherlock said before moving on, Joan mouthing apologies as she followed him.

“Wife now? Bodyguard wasn’t going to cut it this time?” she asked after she caught up.

“They wouldn’t have let you in if you weren’t related to me or him. I don’t have time to fight with doctors over little details,” Sherlock replied curtly, eyes flickering between people and doors rapidly as he followed a map that only he had apparently memorized and wouldn’t share with Joan. It was all she could do to keep up with. 

“Sherlock, maybe this isn’t a good idea,” she said, keeping pace with him.

“Someone needs to identify the body, and I will not let Mycroft come near me,” he said curtly as they wound through the white halls, narrowly avoiding doctors and nurses.

Well, almost avoiding them. “Look, if you’re that- _oomph_.” Joan shook her head, momentarily disoriented, and found that the doctor she’d collided with was steadying her now. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Doctor...” she checked his nametag, “Sigerson. I’m sorry, my husband, he was in a rush and-”

“No need.” Sigerson’s voice was gruff, and he was wearing scrubs as well as a surgical mask, making his face impossible to make out from underneath the cap and mask. “Just make sure he doesn’t make a mess of things,” he added before continuing down the hall, ducking his head down as he passed a gaggle of nurses, eliciting a few giggles from them.  
All right then.

She found Sherlock in the morgue, standing next to the examination table that held his cousin’s body, staring at it as though waiting for it to do something. The mortician, a dark blond woman whose nametag read ‘Mary Harper’, hovered anxiously in the background, her hands twitching as she clutched a folder of papers. 

“Where did you say you worked again?” Sherlock suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

“I-I didn’t,” Harper stammered, her British accent stronger than Sherlock’s. “But if you’re curious, I usually work at St. Bartholomew’s. In London. I’m just here as a visitor, St. Mary’s has a working partnership with St. Bart’s.”

“Did you examine my cousin’s body, after he jumped?” Sherlock asked without looking up.

Silence. Joan noticed that Harper’s hands had stopped twitching. “Y-Yes, I did. He was dead at the scene,” she finally said, a flash of guilt crossing her face so quickly that Joan thought she imagined it. “I-I’m sorry for your loss. Both of them.”

More silence. Joan glanced at Sherrinford’s expression; someone had closed his eyes, but his mouth was trapped open in post-mortem terror. Then it occurred to her that Sherlock had lost someone in London, and she realized that the Sherlock Holmes in the news stories online had to have been another cousin of his, and now he’d just lost Sherrinford as well. 

She could only imagine how the rest of the Holmes family was handling the rapid losses to the family. 

“Sherlock-” she began.

“I see you’ve confiscated the clothes for the autopsy, but what color jacket did he have when he came in?” Sherlock suddenly asked, looking at Harper.

She squirmed under the relentless gaze. “Um, tan?”

Joan had had enough. “Sherlock, I understand you’re upset, but there’s no need to take it out on her,” she said, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.

He easily avoided it. “Send me a copy of the autopsy report, please. There are others who will be wanting to see it,” he said curtly before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

“I’m sorry-” Joan began, but Harper interrupted her.

“No, no, it’s all right, I’m used to it,” she said, offering a small smile. “It was nice to meet you though, Ms...?”

“Watson. Joan Watson,” Joan said, offering a hand. Harper looked surprised, but pulled her examiner’s glove off to shake hands.  
“Mary Harper, but you probably already knew that,” she said, smiling slightly before leaning forward and resolutely zipping the bag up around Sherrinford. “Please do tell Mr. Holmes that his requests for transportation have been taken into consideration.”

“Very well, thank you.” Joan left the morgue then, hoping that Sherlock hadn’t abruptly taken off again without her.

Two family members in three years. From what she could tell, she suspected that they had been close, but even if they weren’t, a death in the family wasn’t an easy matter to handle emotionally. Sherlock, she suspected, had been close to Sherrinford; their bickering two weeks ago seemed to indicate as much. “Sherlock,” she said, easily catching up to him on the curb. “Listen-”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Ms. Watson,” he said curtly, eyes flickering as though he was waiting for the best taxi to hail. 

“I know. I was just going to point out that once you were ready to talk, I’ll be here. I’ll always be here,” she said quietly, remaining at his side. 

There was a moment of silence, and then he said, “I wish I could believe that.” 

Joan was so caught off guard by the comment that she didn’t get a chance a question him because the taxi conveniently pulled up to the curb, and all conversation promptly died as they both got in.

There really was nothing to do anymore, but keep an eye on him now.

\---------------

“Sir?"

Silence. For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her. The sun was setting, turning the sky behind the vivid London skyline a bright pink. Before she could open her mouth to repeat the question, he reacted first.

“What is it, Anthea?”

Cold. He was about as upset as she would ever see him. For all his proclamations of not caring, the latest phone call had shaken him badly, and would no doubt take some time to recover.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Dr. Hooper has finally received your request, and said that she requested for his personal effects from the morgue at St. Mary’s in New York City. They all came in the mail today.” Leaning forward, she carefully placed a small package on the long conference table between them. “Will you need anything else?”

“Was a DNA test conducted, both at St. Mary’s and St. Bart’s?”

“Just at St. Bart’s. St. Mary’s didn’t have comparative DNA, but a family member, a cousin of yours I believe, confirmed that it was him.” She hesitated, and then said quietly, “DNA results came back positive from St. Bart’s.”

More heavy silence. Her employer’s head bowed slightly, and she hated to bother him even more, but some things needed to be taken care of. She asked, “Will you tell him?”

“No. As far as he is concerned, life played out as it did. I will however cease our weekly chats. No one has cause to hurt him now. Where is the body?”

“In our hands, sir, metaphorically speaking. I posted our men to guard the coffin.”

A sigh. She didn’t blame him; despite all the precautions they took, sometimes it just wasn’t enough to prevent death. He spoke again. “Mummy will want him buried in the family cemetery. She doesn’t have to know about everything, I’ll just tell her that I managed to arrange for the grave to be transferred.”

“Then what about the grave here in London?” she carefully asked.

No need to mention the reason why she was asking about it. “We’ll keep it. Add the dates.” A long and weary sigh. “There are many things I should have done differently, but it cannot be helped now. What of the man I sent with him?”

“Disappeared sir, after his death in New York. His wife is also unreachable.”

“She’s useless anyway. He made sure she never knew.” A soft tap of an umbrella tip against the carpet as he shifted restlessly. “Anthea, I will handle these arrangements myself. Inform the Chinese ambassador that I will see him tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir. Good night, sir,” she said before quietly leaving the conference room. Then she went back to her Blackberry; there were still surveillances that had to done as well as other business because while the world didn’t stop to let a man grieve, she felt her employer still needed time to himself to grieve for his only brother.

The hall was silent save for the clicking of her heels against cleaned floors, and she silently made a list of things to accomplish before morning. 

First things first. She had to inform the Chinese ambassador of the change in plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter for real. The next story, ' _Somehow Here Again_ , will take place in London, post-The Reichenbach Fall (Season 2, Episode 3) from BBC Sherlock. It’ll be up soon, promise. I also apologize for any inaccuracies in this chapter. All characters here belong to their creator, Arthur Conan Doyle, and their modern-adaptors

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic for this site and this fandom, please let me know if something needs to be fixed! All characters and related media belong to their proper owners.


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